


A Milkman is a Terrible Thing to Waste

by pamdizzle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Erotica, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hand Jobs, Inspired by Art, M/M, Please God don't let this suck..., Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostate Milking, Red Pants, Roleplay, by Reapersun, for purposes, inherent to, shamelessly refers to Sherlock as milkman throughout.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 11:04:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/pseuds/pamdizzle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh...where to start. I'm new-ish to tumblr, and one of 'ScienceofJohnlock' 's subscribers and last week there were some posts from their blogs about Red Pants Monday losing its steam, and while I'm not exactly 100% comfortable writing for this fandom, mainly because I'm still pretty new and I'm not certain of myself in terms of characterization--I couldn't *not* do something. SOJL seems like a very sweet person and I *do* love RPM so I figured...okay, I'll peruse Tumblr and look for some inspiration. Where better to start than Reapersun's blog under the 'red pants' link. I did find some inspiration--shock, shock--and you can find the picture here. Be sure to read Reaper's dialogue under the picture or the opening line to this will make NO sense whatsoever. </p><p>Pictures is here: http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/10397210105/hay-mr-milkman-do-you-have-some-milk-for-me</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Milkman is a Terrible Thing to Waste

“Okay, okay. I’ll try again…”

*Take Two*

John shut the door to the flat and breathed deeply, letting it out slowly with a long-suffering sigh. This was fine. He could do this. Right. He approached the door and immediately paced away from it again. Why in the unholy fuck had he agreed to this? Role-play exchange?—bloody ridiculous. He’d said as much, only to have it thrown back in his face that very morning: ‘That’s not what you said last night when I was tickling your arse with my feather duster—’

‘Alright fine!’ had been John’s embarrassed capitulatory response, his face hot with shame. There was no backing out now. Sherlock _had_ been flawless, of course, playing the part of the naughty maid. Just picturing the leggy detective bent over the coffee table ‘dusting’ in the short frilled skirt, thigh-high stockings and black, too-small silk— _fuck._

John loosed the belt of his robe and allowed it to fall open and expose his chest, legs and red, cotton pants. He glared at the offending article. _Red pants…_ What was he, fourteen? They were part of Sherlock’s demand for the scenario. How in the hell was any of this supposed to be sexy? Christ, and what an odd request from the world’s only consulting detective. John had prepared himself for just about anything—playing a corpse, good cop-bad cop, BDSM—but this? What the hell? The milkman fantasy was so fifties…so tame…so _innocent_ …

John’s brow knit together, as he replayed his first attempt at the game in his head. He’d been overly wanton, hadn’t he? Bugger, he was absolutely rubbish at this. He couldn’t act to save his life, nevermind trying to do it convincingly enough for Sherlock. As if he could ever fool…He licked his lips and took a quick in-drawn breath. He was going about this in entirely the wrong manner.

Three swift, firm knocks against the door startled John out of his contemplation. With a decisive nod, he pulled the robe back around his frame and tied it snugly in a neat loop at his waist. He cleared his throat and carefully opened the door. He let his eyes roam Sherlock’s frame, clad in the white suit and hat, his face contorted into the detective’s best impersonal fake smile. “Your milk delivery,” Sherlock intoned, voice vacant of any innuendo or inflection.

“I…” John smiled shyly and ducked his head, his arms crossed tightly around his middle as he leaned his shoulder against the door frame. “I didn't order any milk,” he stated with mild confusion.

There was a slight quirk in the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, which was the only indication that John might be on the right track. “That’s odd. I've been delivering milk here for the past three years, every Wednesday at ten o’clock without fail.”

“Oh,” John glanced up with the most apologetic expression he could manage. “I’m house sitting. The, uh, owner of the residence—Misses Hudson—she won’t be back until Friday. I’m afraid I don’t have any money. She didn't say—”

“Do you realize how difficult it is to be a milkman in the twenty-first century?” Sherlock interrupted, his voice sharp with ire, his eyes alight with thinly veiled outrage. It was so believable, John had to stop himself from blabbering out a 'brilliant' or something else equally ridiculous.

Instead he licked his lips and swallowed nervously as he adjusted his stance to seem a little taller, “I’m afraid not, no.”

Sherlock ascended the first step, then the second until he was towering over John in the doorway. “Allow me to enlighten you then. There are approximately fourteen thousand dairy farmers remaining in Britain, and there will be less after this year due to a huge cut in the price of milk from thirty pence to twenty-five pence per liter, because of sub-par product providers such as your Tesco and Morrisons flooding the market with their cheap, convenient product.”

Sherlock’s eyes were narrowed as he crowded John further against the entryway to the flat, much to John’s amusement, though he did well pretending to cower against the frame as the detective ranted on, “Meanwhile, _I_ must wake no later than three-thirty each morning to retrieve my truck by four-fifteen in order to begin my route by four-forty-five. Milkmen, like dairy farmers, are going out of business faster than whore-houses in the nineteen-sixties, and do you know why? Because these _amateurs_ are just giving the milk away for close to _free_ while I’m still clinging to what is left of my client list. If you don’t buy the milk I deliver today and present the receipt of sale to Misses Hudson on Friday, do you know what will happen?”

John’s eyes were wide, his mouth agape—not because he was acting, but because he was thoroughly concerned that Sherlock was taking the piss. “Uh…no—”

“Misses Hudson will find her refrigerator bereft of milk on Saturday morning,” Sherlock supplied, taking the door handle and pushing it back so that John had to relinquish his hold or risk spraining his wrist, “and so she’ll be forced to buy it from Tesco—a full three days later than she usually buys milk and then do you know what will happen _next_ Wednesday? She’ll still have milk from Saturday and so she’ll not need milk on _Wednesday_ , will she?”

“Oh—”

“Yes, ‘oh’, indeed,” Sherlock mimicked with air quotes. “So, tell me, Sir House-sitter, what exactly _do_ you have to pay with, because I’m not leaving here until I’ve written you a proper bill of sale.”

John smiled nervously and let a panicked chuckle escape as he stepped back into the flat. He glanced desperately around their living room, as he bid Sherlock the Milkman to enter. “I’m uh…I’m sure there’s something around here—some spare change of some sort. Why…uh…why don’t you come in aaand we can put the milk in the refrigerator, so we don’t throw off Misses Hudson’s purchasing schedule, yes?”

Sherlock straightened haughtily, the glass containers in the basket he carried clinking together gently as he followed John inside, pushing the door closed behind him. “Very well.” Two words had never sounded more ominous. Despite knowing it was a ruse, Sherlock’s ability to maintain his character was putting John into the fantasy and his stomach was fluttering with nerves. As if Sherlock really were a mad-as-a-hatter, disgruntled milkman and he was just a confused house-sitter, trying to placate him.

“Let’s see,” John mumbled, his back to the kitchen where he heard Sherlock putting the bottles of milk away.  He bent over slightly and shuffled through a basket of mail on the coffee table. “I’m sure there’s bound to be some loose notes sitting around here somewhere,” he called out, his voice still placating, the tone of it kept carefully casual. “How much does a crate of milk go for these days?”

There were slow steps against the wood floors as Sherlock came to stand behind him. John immediately moved to straighten, but a hot hand pressed firmly against the center of his back halted the action. There was a moment of absolute stillness, where John forgot to breathe, before the hand on his back slid to his hips and a hard body curved itself along his arse and thighs. “More than you’re going to find in a basket full of old post,” Sherlock rasped lowly against the shell of John’s ear.

John wiggled slightly in the detective’s hold, and stuttered quietly, “I—I don’t understand.”

“I think you understand perfectly,” the milkman purred, his hand slipping slowly down John’s thigh and back up again to rest over his abdomen. “Answering the door in nothing but your robe, inviting me inside…”

John struggled a bit harder this time, earning his freedom so he could round on his accuser with firm denial, “I don’t know what you’re implying, but I just got out of the shower and I invited you in while I find some means to pay you, not—”

“Even after you said you don’t have any cash,” Sherlock, the pervy milkman, replied silkily. “What else were you going to pay me with—those hideous drapes from the seventies?” He gestured at the windows, then pointedly eyed John’s crotch, “Or was there another set of drapes you’d like me to peruse?”

John didn’t laugh, but it was a near thing. Instead, he straightened and sucked in a deep breath. “Well, you’ve delivered the milk. I think it’s time you saw yourself out. I’m sure Misses Hudson will gladly pay you for both deliveries next week, if you’d care to fill out a receipt and—”

“I don’t take credit,” Sherlock interrupted succinctly. He pushed his way into John’s space until the doctor’s back encountered the wall beside the coat hooks. Sherlock pulled his milkman’s hat off and tossed it casually to the other side of the room.

John raised his chin in defiance, “Listen here, you—”

“Oh, don’t play hard to get!” Sherlock growled, his hands slamming onto the wall on either side of John’s face. “You know where Misses Hudson keeps her notes, it’s not the first time she’s asked you to house-sit.” Sherlock’s mouth closed over the pulse-point on John’s neck and his hands reflexively buried themselves in the man’s hair, his fingers twisting themselves into Sherlock’s unruly curls.

“Mmmphh,” John groaned, arching his body into Sherlock’s until the detective nudged him in the thigh with his knee. _Right._ He cleared his throat before panting out another denial, “I…don’t know what…you’re talking about.”

“Samson’s milk is delivered by request-only each week. You had to have called yesterday or I wouldn’t have come by today at all,” the milkman accused as he trailed open-mouthed kisses up John’s neck. “I’ve seen you here before, and I know that you’ve seen me. You planned to invite me in from the start, showering at five in the morning, using your most expensive cologne—just enough for me to smell its sweeter undertones. You opened the door in your robe, with nothing but a pair of bright red pants underneath—a color so flamboyant that it's clearly visible through the fabric of your robe so that I could make no mistake about your nudity—but you lost your nerve the moment I knocked.”

John schooled his surprise at the unveiling of Sherlock’s rather adorable fantasy and masked it with a wide-eyed stare, then a bashful half-smile, “How did you—”

“It’s not my first trip ‘round the dairy farm,” Sherlock purred as he pulled the loop of John’s belt, allowing the robe to fall open. Their eyes met for a brief moment without pretense, and he could see he wasn't the only one fighting a round of mood-breaking giggles.

“Fair enough,” John finally retorted. “Want to give me a tour then?”

Sherlock’s eyes darkened and he licked his lips, “Undoubtedly.” The detective’s hands encircled John’s waist, pushing him gently back against the wall as he dipped to taste his mouth. Their lips slanted together, well accustomed to one another, and their tongues touched in gentle greeting, sweet and delectable—wholly enthralling. Sherlock was flush against his sternum, and John fought with all the buttons separating the detective’s skin from his own.

When their lips finally parted, Sherlock’s crisp uniform shirt was a rumpled thing on the floor. His milkman’s mouth was sucking a path along John’s jaw and neck, then down to the scarred flesh of his shoulder and lower still until lips were wrapped around one of his bared nipples. John’s hands clutched at the back of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, as his body came to life and heat began to pool in his stomach.

With a flick of his wrist, Sherlock withdrew a small bottle from his pocket. His open mouth and wet tongue left a glistening line down the center of John’s stomach as he dropped to his knees. “Your uniform...” John managed, “it’ll get dirty.”

Shelock’s slate blue eyes snapped to John’s face, and his mouth quirked into a smirk as he slowly pulled John’s red pants down to his ankles. “Can’t milk the cows standing up, can we?”

“Wha—AH!” John shouted as his head knocked back against the wall. Sherlock hadn't wasted any time and sucked the head of John’s cock into this hot, pretty mouth. John's body tightened and coiled with restraint—there was nothing he wanted more in that moment than to grab Sherlock’s head and fuck his mouth until the detective was choking on it. The way Sherlock suckled at the tip—just the tip and nothing more—was a torturous tease.

Two slicked fingers were suddenly pressed to his perineum where they circled and massaged, slowly trailing further back until they were nudging against his hole. John couldn’t stop the groan that escaped his open mouth in response as he slid down the wall a bit further, stepped out of the underwear with one foot and spread his legs wider in invitation. Sherlock hummed in appreciation at John's eagerness, sending delicious vibrations down the length of John’s prick as a single finger pushed inward beyond the ring of his entrance. 

Sherlock withdrew his mouth and replaced it with a hand at the base of John’s cock just as a second finger slid in to join the first. John was openly panting as he stared down at the debauched milkman at his feet. “As I was saying,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled, hot and low like the churning of an active volcano, “milking the cows is a delicate procedure.” It should have been funny. It wasn't. Sherlock’s fingers, which had been fucking in and out of him in a slow, teasing rhythm, suddenly curled upward toward the base of his cock to rub in a sweet circle over John’s prostate.

“Fuck!”

“Yes…” Sherlock hissed, his fingers continuing their motion against the little bundle of nerves. For what seemed like several long minutes, John writhed under the intensity of his milkman's ministrations, his cock held still by Sherlock’s other hand wrapped firmly around the base. His own hands were bunched in the fabric of his robe, held tightly behind his back to keep himself from reaching for Sherlock as the detective slowly took him apart.

“Please,” John begged shamelessly, “touch…please…”

Sherlock, to John's surprise, obeyed by finally tugging his hand all the way up the shaft, pulling the loose skin up to the tip before then dragging his grip all the way down again. The fingers in his rectum pressed just a little bit more insistently against his prostate as Sherlock repeated the motion, just as slow as before.

“Hah…Sher—ah!” John had made the mistake of once again looking down. Sherlock’s eyes were on him as the detective opened his mouth, placing his bottom lip at the tip of John’s prick just as a steady stream of semen began to flow out and onto Sherlock’s waiting tongue.  “Oh…oh God…” He was _literally_ being milked. Like a fucking cow. And Sherlock, mouth open, eyes closed as if the taste of John was something divine— _fuck!_

He let it go on for as long as he could manage, coming and coming but not climaxing, before losing his sanity at which point John was reaching to remove Sherlock’s hands, his body shaking for the sudden loss of contact as he dropped himself to his knees. Sherlock stared at him in a daze, panting and sweating, as he licked his lips. Wordlessly; hastily; hungrily, John unfastened the milkman's pristine, white trousers and yanked them down Sherlock’s thighs.

The detective’s cock sprang forward and up, flushed and leaking. Without a moment's more hesitation, John mounted him, sinking down to the hilt, and they groaned in unison. That had been, without question, the sexiest thing anyone had ever bloody done to him, and John was so turned on by it every nerve ending he possessed was longing to rub against Sherlock and ride him ‘til the cows came home.

“Bloody, brilliant, fucking filthy—”

“Quit babbling and fuck yourself on my prick—”

“Dirty, God, yes,” John rolled his hips and shut them both up with lips and tongue and too little air.

It didn’t last long, there was no way it possibly could with Sherlock’s hard hands gripping either side of his arse, holding his own body absolutely still as John rode him relentlessly, up and down, back and forth. When he came, it was in long stripes all over Sherlock’s stomach, his thighs sore and shaking with fatigue. Sherlock wound his arms around John’s back and spread his knees for leverage so he could thrust up hard into John’s spent body.

John turned his head into Sherlock’s neck and sucked at the sensitive spot he knew was just beneath his ear. Sherlock came with a shout, thrusting wildly until he was sated and his own emissions were leaking freely between them. They collapsed side by side onto the floor, where Sherlock lazily wiped them clean with the earlier discarded uniform shirt. Sherlock’s pants were still wrinkled and halfway down his legs, John’s robe was torn a bit at the pocket seams while the damned red pants still hung from one ankle. John decided, then and there, that was it:

“I will never buy milk from Tesco again.”

"Next time, I won't _rent_ the uniform."

"That's a rental?"

"Not anymore."

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize if the characterizations are funny. I'm not yet comfortable with them, but wanted to do something for Red Pants Monday anyway. I can't draw...but I do *try* to write...so yeah...pronz and such. :) 
> 
> Also: I write original m/m erotica fiction, if you're interested. You can find it [here](http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/index.php?cPath=55_1117)


End file.
